A Simple Request
by LondonBelow
Summary: Faramir asks a favor of his brother.


Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings and all related people, places and things were created by J.R.R. Tolkien.

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Dawn came to Minas Tirith, opening the way for morning. Light crept. Stealthy, it stole under doors and through windows, touching sleepers, brightening what had been in mystery. Spiders scuttled away into the receding shadows. Birds called, beautiful, loud, obnoxious things. In a little-used corridor the Steward of Gondor's younger son crouched low to the ground. His fingers rested gently against the floor. After wincing at an initial burst of coldness, he had ceased being bothered by temperature, intent on watching the light progress. Laboriously it dragged itself towards his fingers, movement uncharted yet unchanged. Faramir might similarly entice a cat, though he would hold his hand palm-up, twitch his fingers some and coax, soothingly, _here now, come on, love, it's all right,_ gently.

Light touched Faramir's fingertips, flaring soft pink and bouncing a smile onto his face. The world remained intact. Knowing and sunlight warmed him. Greenness flooded his mind. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the familiar scents of Minas Tirith, earth and stone, so many people, and—death. There was no escaping that subtle stench. Whether it had lodged in his clothes or settled on his skin or came borne on the back of the wind, Faramir could not say, but nowhere could he escape it.

Suddenly Faramir raised his eyes, gazing at an empty corridor. Though his posture did not change, he stiffened like a cat hearing a scratch in the walls. Then, quite suddenly, he spun away. He landed hard on his rear, which did not hurt half as much as being kicked, a likely alternative given his brother's foot currently swishing through the air. Boromir swore. He took a few seconds to regain his balance while Faramir grinned up at him.

"Good morning, Boromir."

"Good morning, Little Idiot." Boromir offered his hand and helped Faramir to his feet. He looked his brother up and down and peered into his face. Faramir had never mastered reading faces or eyes; personalities and situations were his strongest suit. The scrutiny discomforted him. He looked away. Finally, Boromir asked, "You had the dream again, didn't you?"

His face remained impassive. "Yes." It left him unsettled, shaken. The light and darkness Faramir understood. The poem haunted him. The poem changed, though the words remained the same; he heard it whispered with reverence, chanted sing-song like a skip rope rhyme, thundered almost unintelligibly from the sky and crashed like waves on the shore. Faramir had those words in his head every moment of every day. He breathed them in. His heart beat to their rhythm. Until he answered their riddle, Faramir knew he would find no peace.

Boromir reached out a hand to his brother, but Faramir was too quick for him: "I need your help."

The straightforward question came as no surprise. Sometimes Boromir loved that about his brother. He was straightforward and reliable. Other times, Boromir wished his brother would gentle his words a little. His tone was dark and heavy, so much so that normally unquestioningly loyal Boromir asked, "What help?"

"Say the dream was visited upon you." Faramir delivered his speech as straight as ever, meeting Boromir's eyes with the intense stare that so disconcerted the older man. He felt Faramir did not quite look at him. Faramir looked into him, or through him, if he saw Boromir at all. Never did Boromir feel as insignificant as under his brother's vacant scrutiny.

Boromir looked away as he shook his head. "No."

He spoke with little eloquence, always, yet Faramir admired his brother's speech, each word so weighted he had to pause to pick apart the tangled strands of emotion. As always, he heard love, but also fear, confusion, and anger.

"I need your help," he repeated emphatically like a new question.

By now Boromir knew the dream as well as Faramir did. He knew the eastern darkness and western light; he knew the riddle-poem, though unlike Faramir, Boromir heard the poem spoken in one voice only: his brother's. For a moment his mouth hung just slightly open as he considered, then Boromir shook his head. "No. You are asking me to lie; it never came to me." And more, he did not want to be like his brother.

Everyone who met him or had ever heard a breath of gossip knew Faramir was queer. He was loved and followed; Men were loyal to him. Faramir could walk into a tavern and a dozen men would try to buy him a pint, but not a one would sit and drink with him. Claiming a single dream might not earn Boromir an equal reputation, but it was a slippery slope.

Faramir bowed his head slightly, in part because he did not know what to say and in part because he agreed. He _was_ asking his brother to lie. "Do you trust me?" he asked. The light had crept further now. It caught across Faramir, filling him with a warmth that reminded him of coldness and burning gold off his dark hair.

"Yes…" As he said it Boromir felt his resolve crumbling. It mattered nothing what Faramir said next. Boromir would agree. He had already agreed, in his heart, undone by Faramir's straightforward question. All he wanted, Boromir knew, was what he asked for. The question asked no action, was meant to spark no sensation of guilt. It asked information, and wanted information only.

"I am asking you to own that trust."

Boromir sighed. "I trust you," he said.

"So you will say—?"

Boromir hauled back and drove his fist hard into his brother's gut. Faramir had grown up with Boromir: he knew how to take a punch, and neither shied away from the blow nor cried out, though he took a few deep breaths, jolting like a cat with a hairball. The pain lingered. Slowly, Faramir's breath returned. "That means yes?" he asked.

"That means yes," Boromir echoed.

_End_


End file.
